


Soaring

by thekeyholder



Category: Muse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Challenge Response, Introspection, M/M, Psychological Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/pseuds/thekeyholder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To draw is to create. To draw is to prove something’s existence, to bring it to this dimension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soaring

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for the June 2012 fanfic challenge (I chose the pictures with the rain, handholding and coloured pencils).

My  favourite part of the day is the morning, especially if I wake up before anyone else – secretly, I like to believe that I own the first sunrays of the day. And that’s not even the best thing about it.

Every morning he’s there, beside my bed, greeting me with the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to because I can read his words in his eyes.

This morning I wake up to the steady drumming song of the raindrops. Automatically, I turn my head to the left and smile back at him. I think he’s so beautiful because he smiles with his whole face. Oh and his teeth…they are whiter than the snow white walls of my room.

As I’m buttoning up my white shirt, I notice two twins behind the fence laughing and jumping in puddles, ignoring their mother’s warnings. He steps beside me and when I longingly put my trembling hand on the steamy glass, he places his hand on mine, squeezing it gently.

After I dress up, I ’ m taken to the canteen to have breakfast. The others seem morose today, shuffling to and fro as pale ghosts, as if the heavy rain clouds are weighing on them. 

Luckily, I ’ ve got him. He draws abstract forms with a spoon on the white foam of his cappuccino and folds a butterfly from my napkin. As if that isn ’ t enough, he puts a sausage above his upper lip, pretending to have a moustache. The room echoes my hearty laugh and for a moment, everybody looks up from the white plates and stares at me. I look down blushing and mumbling: “I think I was too loud.”

_ “I just wanted to make you laugh.” _

Then somebody kindly shows me in to the spacious common room which, despite the bad weather, is still full of light, thanks to the large windows.

I need light. Whether it ’ s the iridescent reflection of raindrops, the burning sunlight or the spark in his grey agate eyes. But now I need light because I noticed something on the table: coloured pencils.

To draw is to create. To draw is to prove something ’ s existence, to bring it to this dimension. As usual, I will try to draw him because he ’ s the only thing worth drawing in my life.

He hides his face shyly with his hands and I have to tickle him to make him look at me. His blonde hair is slightly dishevelled, his cheeks irresistibly red. I press my lips to his left cheek while holding his head and whisper my burning wish to make a portrait of him. He looks down meekly, but finally agrees to be my model once more.

My fingers are trembling, so I start carefully with the contour, but become bolder with every stroke and I change the pencils frequently. In the beginning I have to look up to my model frequently, afraid I might miss something. He is very patient, standing still for me, but his intense gaze encourages me every time I look up from my white paper. A drawing, unlike a painting, is not built on layers, so I can apply the dark tones at the same time with the light ones.

I have no idea how I know this. Even drawing seems to come so automatically, so easily. I ’ ve been probably immersed for a couple of hours when I hear Tom ’ s, a fellow mate ’ s, excited comment:

“That’ s gorgeous, Matt. Gorgeous. I had a friend who was just as talented as you, but your drawing is better. It ’ s gorgeous, you should sell it. That friend was broke, he sold all his paintings, but you should keep it. It ’ s gorgeous. Put it in your room, Matthew. It ’ s gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” I say half-heartedly, because I can see from the corner of my eye that one of the “white coats” is approaching.

I wanted to sneak the drawing into my room without them noticing it, because I know they won ’ t allow me to keep it.

“Hello, Matthew. How are you feeling today?” she asks kindly.

I hate it that they are so caring, it makes me feel guilty. I gulp and reply reluctantly, trying to hide the drawing with my trembling hands: “Good.”

“I see you felt inspired today. Will you show me your drawing?”

I take away my hands and reveal it. It ’ s truly the best I ’ ve ever done, my life ’ s masterpiece. I look attentively at her face, not wanting to miss her reaction. At first, her green eyes widen with admiration and surprise.

“Oh, Matthew…this is…”

She looks at it closer and then the admiration turns into worry and bewilderment and she frowns and becomes very pale.

“…gorgeous,” Tom finishes the sentence proudly.

She looks at me with concern, takes the drawing without a word and storms out of the common room. I know where she ’ s going and I follow her calmly. I glue my ear to the white office door and listen to their hisses.

“But Doctor Raymond, how is it possible that Matt still remembers him? I thought…”

“I don’ t know. We will have to administer him the double dose of…”

Somebody puts a hand on my shoulder. I jerk slightly, but luckily, it ’ s just him.

_ “Go back to the common room.” _

“But…” I want to fight him even though I know he ’ s right. If they caught me in front of the door, it would be worse.

So by the time she comes back with Doctor Raymond and another “white coat”, I ’ m sitting on the sofa, waiting for them as if nothing happened. To their surprise, I extend my right arm and the “white coat” shoots me with an injection, ready to pin me down in case I become aggressive (it happened in the past when I thought I ’ d lose him forever). I lean back and notice that I ’ m getting 20 millilitres this time, the double dose. I blink a few times and keep staring at him. He ’ s smiling sadly and as he slowly fades away a tear rolls down my cheek. I can ’ t even wipe it away anymore, I ’ m paralysed.

I bear it passively as they put me on a bed. The things around me become blurry and I feel the forced sleep already fogging my mind. This is exactly what they want and I hear their pleased whispers as they gently lay me on the bed  – they think my mind is “clear” while sleeping. In fact, as soon as I let myself fall in the soft abyss of sleep, he ’ s there to hold my hand.

The “white coats” have no idea, but the pills, injections and other stuff have only temporary effect  – I can find him no matter where he is. 

As soon as I rest my head on a pillow, I soar with him in places where no one can bother us.


End file.
